


Precipice

by Nate_Gorisch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Feels, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Rimming, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12350259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nate_Gorisch/pseuds/Nate_Gorisch
Summary: An account of the hours in Hannibal's safe house between the FBI ambush and The Dragon's arrival.





	Precipice

“Going my way?”

Will’s eyes went from the FBI agent that had just flopped out of the passenger seat onto the tar, to the smirking man behind the wheel. He felt tightness in his chest and realised it was laughter, crouched between his lungs. He did not let it escape.

“Which way is that?” Will replied, stepping over the dead man.

Hannibal tilted his head, and for a moment it looked as though he too was suppressing laughter. Will often detected that in him.

“Forward,” he said simply.

Will stood still for another vain moment. They both already knew which way he would go.  
Will ducked into the passenger seat, closing the door behind him. He leant his head back and closed his eyes. His ears were still ringing from the crash. His head ached. Every piece of him felt perforated, with the slightest tug he would burst apart. Hannibal put the car in gear.

“Buckle up,” he instructed, incongruous playfulness in his voice.

Will’s swirling mind strayed back to the crash and he found himself obeying. Like a seatbelt could save him now.  
Will had never known Hannibal to be a reckless driver, but when he eventually opened his eyes again he saw the countryside blurring past at an alarming speed. He supposed they were in a police car, so Hannibal could do as he damn well pleased. But then, Hannibal always did as he pleased.

“Why take me with you?”

Hannibal glanced at him.

“Why not?”

“Does it not seem odd to you that Dolarhyde spared me? His business is with you.”

“The dragon is merciful indeed,” Hannibal replied.

“Someone must have tipped him off,” Will went on, “Hasn’t it occurred to you that someone might be me?”

Hannibal nodded, once.

“It has.”

“So then I could be leading you into a trap. Why bring me with?”

Hannibal looked to him again, turning his face fully from the road ahead. The smirk was back, and it was nearly a grin.

“I don’t see how you could be leading me anywhere, Will. I’m the one driving.”

Will took a deep, calming breath; closing his eyes and tilting his head back once more. How one man could maintain such a constant level of smug self-satisfaction was beyond him, prone to self-deprecation as he was. Will was not even confident this man could be characterized as a sociopath anymore. He supposed poor Chilton had best put it into words.  
There is not yet a name for whatever Hannibal Lector is.  
Will was simultaneously aware that Doctor Chilton had said the same thing at his own trial. He reflected on his choices, willingly climbing into a car with Hannibal Lector, and thought maybe this was also true.  
Two of a kind, he thought, without a touch of humour. Because despite everything, he could not deny the comfortable familiarity of letting Hannibal take the wheel. He supposed he might be content in the way a slave who knows nothing but slavery might return to his master after being set abruptly free. It was not healthy, but it felt right.

Will slept, and when he did, he dreamed of a feathered black deer, following the car. He woke to the sound of the ocean and Hannibal’s voice. 

The transition from sleep to consciousness had never been a graceful one for him. Will awoke without realising he had slept at all. He blinked rapidly, the glare of grey skies clouding his vision. When his eyes adjusted, it was to the sight of Hannibal, standing with the car door open, like a chauffer. 

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” he asked, rubbing his eyes clear.

“I didn’t have the heart to,” Hannibal replied, that congenial smile on his face and familiar, condescending glint in his eyes, “You looked so peaceful.”

Will climbed out without further protest. 

Ahead of them sat a house on the edge of a cliff, its glass face looking out over the ocean.  
The roof ran at a slant, making the whole structure look unsteady to Will’s eyes, as though it were about to slide down the bluff and into the sea.  
He did not ask where they were, only followed Hannibal up the drive. He did not lead Will to the house, but instead to the edge of the precipice. They stood in silence for a moment, staring down at the waves dashing themselves apart on the rocks. Will’s mind was lead to fishing. He had not been in a while. He missed it. He supposed he would go fishing again, when all this was done. When all this was done–

“The bluff is eroding,” Hannibal said, pulling Will from his thoughts.

“There was more land when I was here with Abigail,” the name drew Will’s eyes from the bluff to the man beside him, Hannibal continued, unfazed, “More land still when I was here with Miriam Lass.”

Will looked away again, out over the water. 

“Now you’re here with me.”

He felt Hannibal’s eyes on the back of his skull. 

“And the bluff is still eroding,” came the voice from over Will’s shoulder, “You and I are suspended over the roiling Atlantic. Soon, all this will be lost to the sea.” 

Will heard Hannibal’s footsteps scuffing away from him over the paving. He stood alone for a moment longer, staring at nothing in particular.  
And then he turned and followed. 

Hannibal was at the front door, set in the glass. He reached on top of the doorframe and brought down a key. Will was vaguely amused that doctor Hannibal Lector kept a spare key in the same place as most other mortals. He let himself in and left the door open. Will hesitated in the threshold.  
He thought about Abigail, walking through this doorway as he was about to. Being in the places deceased loved ones occupied in the past is supposed to make you feel closer to them. And yet, standing in the exact spot Abigail had stood years ago, Will felt further away than ever.

“Close it behind you, if you don’t mind,” Hannibal called over his shoulder.

He had already begun excavation, switching on the lights and pulling dusty sheets off from over the furniture. A grand piano and a long dining table stood exposed. It was quite typical of Hannibal to give those two things priority.  
Hannibal moved efficiently, wiping down dust and whipping off sheets. The house almost looked lived in after just a few minutes.  
Will suddenly became aware of the pain in his stomach. He was hungry. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. The thought of what Hannibal might serve him diminished his appetite somewhat. The kitchen lay ahead in a state of barren disuse. Will walked slowly over, paying no more mind to Hannibal’s movements.  
Kitchens had made Will uneasy for some time after Hannibal eviscerated him in one. The collection of knives, the hard, sterile coldness of the surfaces combined with the memories put him on edge. The pain in his belly grew worse as his feet clacked against the tiles. His scar throbbed beneath his shirt. The refrigerator stood like a beast before him. And for a moment, he was terrified of what he would discover in its maw. But yet he reached out his hand and gripped the handle. He pulled it open. And found it empty. He was almost disappointed. 

“You won’t be making us dinner then?” he spoke into the empty refrigerator.

“I find myself at a loss for ingredients,” Hannibal had snuck up on him.

Will closed it and turned to face him.  
Hannibal stood across the countertop from him, a collection of neatly folded sheets under his arm. He held one draped over his other arm, unfolded. Will watched him set down the pile and spread the last over the counter. Instinctively, Will took the opposite corners in his hands and brought them across to meet Hannibal’s.

“That’s never stopped you before,” Will replied, stepping back and allowing Hannibal to complete the task on his own, “I’m here.” 

Hannibal glanced up, the sheet held beneath his chin in mid-fold. Something about the sight of it was so comically domestic. 

“You were quite happy to eat me, not too long ago,” Will concluded.

Hannibal finished the task, setting the pristinely folded sheet on top of the others. He put his hand down atop the pile and looked meaningfully across at Will.

“Do you know what vorarephillia is, Will?”

He didn’t.

“Enlighten me.”

The homely yellow light of the nearest lamp reflected little gold flecks in Hannibal’s narrow eyes, making them look wet and warm.

“It is a paraphilia characterised by the erotic desire to be consumed whole by a larger being,” Hannibal said, inclining his head towards him as he spoke, a smile growing on his lips. 

He paused for a moment before completing his thought.

“Are you a vorarephilliac, Will?”

Will wondered, for a quiet moment, if Hannibal was capable of flirting.

“I am whatever you have made me,” he decided to respond.

Hannibal made a sound, almost like a laugh, then picked up the sheets and made his way around the counter to Will’s side.

“Don’t be so modest,” he said, opening a cupboard beside Will’s legs and crouching to slide in the sheets, “modesty doesn’t become you.” 

He straightened up again, now standing beside him. Will became acutely aware that this was the closest they had stood in years. The scar on his stomach continued to throb, and the subtle headache he had been harbouring since the crash intensified.

“You are greater than the sum of your parts, Will,” Hannibal said, speaking nearly into his ear, as though he feared eavesdroppers, “Bent and rusted as they may be.”

Will turned his head, excruciatingly slowly, to look at him. Hannibal had his eyes closed. He was smelling him. Without warning, he opened them. Will was caught in eye contact he had not desired. 

“You smell faintly of Doctor Du Maurier,” Hannibal said, reaching for a cupboard over Will’s shoulder.

Will stepped aside, retreating to a safe distance. He felt muscles all over his body relaxing as he drew away from Hannibal.

“Have you been speaking with her?” he asked, setting two wineglasses down on the counter and closing the cupboard.

“I was in need of a therapist.”

Hannibal turned to face Will, a glass in each hand. And then he headed for the sink. He opened the tap and held the dusty glasses under the water.

“Did you find her helpful?”

Will swallowed, his mouth was dry, his throat clicked uselessly. He folded his arms across his chest, a mechanism to trick himself into feeling safe.

“I found her interesting.”

“How so?” Hannibal asked in the perfunctory tone of a parent, inquiring after his child’s day at school.

Will watched him from behind for a moment, meticulously wiping down the edges of the sink, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his clothing.

“Doctor Du Maurier seems to believe you are in love with me.”

Hannibal paused for a moment. And then he looked over his shoulder. Will was ready for his eyes this time, and held them unblinkingly with his own. Will tried to see emotion behind them, tried to read Hannibal’s face. But he saw nothing.  
Until Hannibal smiled.  
And then he turned away again and began drying the wine glasses. 

“And how is Bedelia?”

“Great,” Will replied, with a touch of cool disdain, “She’s achieved a warped form of stardom, befitting her. She gives lectures on her time with you in Florence. How she escaped the jaws of the nefarious Hannibal Lector.”

“Ah,” Hannibal set the clean wineglasses down on the counter with a clink, “And how did I do it? How did I ensnare the poor Bedelia Du Maurier?”

“Drugs, conditioning, similar to the methods you used on Miriam Lass.”

Hannibal nodded slowly, he now stood facing Will again, leaning against the counter with his hands resting on the edge on either side of him, the dishcloth draped over his shoulder.

“Bedelia never took well to being left out,” Hannibal mused, “or behind.”

“She thinks very highly of you,” Will went on, “and seems to believe you think the same of her.”

A smirk was teasing up the corners of Hannibal’s lips, too subtle to be a smile for sure, possibly just a trick of the light, not unlike the Mona Lisa.

“Does she now?” he said, that tone like suppressed laughter back in his voice.

“Would she be wrong?” Will countered.

Hannibal tilted his head back, looking to the sloped ceiling as though he expected to find the answer written there.

“It’s a strange notion,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, “for a cow to take pride in the way its meat will taste when it reaches the butcher’s slab. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Will felt an unsavoury smirk, momentarily tweaking his face in distant amusement.

“Are you calling Bedelia a cow, Hannibal?”

Hannibal inclined his head towards Will, raising his eyebrows.

“Now that would be rude, Will,” he chastised mildly, “Your words. Not mine.”

He dried his hands on the dishcloth then hung it over the tap.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, walking past Will and around the counters, “These overalls are practical, but after three years of solid wear, they grow tiresome. I should like to get changed. The bathroom is to the left of the front door, feel free to freshen up.” 

And then he slipped out of eyeshot, through the bedroom doorway. Will did not feel inclined to freshen up. He did not feel inclined to move at all. So he stayed where he was, leaning against the counter. Staring out the window at the dark Atlantic and the grey skies above it. Thinking about teacups and the passage of time. About Abigail, Molly, Walter. About his dogs. And once again about fishing.

And when Hannibal emerged from the bedroom, it was to find him standing right where he had left him. Will stared past Hannibal, out the enormous window. The sun was beginning to set, but somehow the sky remained colourless. 

“Did I break your heart, Hannibal?” Will spoke without looking at him.

Hannibal was quiet for a moment.

“I left my heart for you in the Norman Chapel in Palermo.”

“You left me the skinned and mutilated remains of Anthony Dimmond.”

Hannibal did not come any closer, nor did he move any further away.

“Perhaps you should like to sit down, Will? You look tired.”

“Perhaps,” Will agreed.

But still neither of them moved. Until Hannibal turned away. Will let his eyes move from the monochrome horizon to the back of Hannibal’s head. He moved over to the piano and sat down.

“I haven’t played in some time, excuse me if I am a little rusty.”

He placed his fingers on the keys. And it was as though he had rehearsed everyday for the past three years.  
Will closed his eyes and listened. He wondered if Hannibal was trying to lure him closer. After a few minutes, Will gave up his resistance and allowed himself to be lured. He walked slowly over and sat on the pearly white sofa beside the piano, taking off his jacket and laying it over the armrest. He closed his eyes again and found the pain in his head had departed, but the pain in his belly remained. He did not notice when the music stopped, only sensed Hannibal’s eyes on him.

“I’m hungry,” he said, from the darkness behind his eyelids.

“I fear I am a terrible host,” Hannibal replied, “You must forgive me.”

Will sighed, “You’re the one I feel sorry for. Your first night out and no meal.”

“There are other ways to satisfy an appetite,” the voice now came from over his shoulder.

Hannibal was standing close behind him. Will opened his eyes.

“Are you in love with me, Hannibal?”

He felt Hannibal’s hands, resting on his shoulders, and muscles all over his body contacting at the touch.

“What do you want to hear?”

“The truth,” Will replied, his voice a rasp.

Will felt Hannibal’s hands slide up and down the width of his shoulders. His hopelessly dry throat had gone tight. He swallowed, to no avail.

“Do you crave intimacy, Will?”

Will looked over his shoulder and up at the man looming over him. Words failed him for a brief moment, his parched throat offered up no air.

“We have intimate knowledge of each other,” he replied eventually, turning away.

“That is not the type of intimacy I am referring to.”

Will could not bring himself to look back at him again. He instead stared straight ahead, through the windows at the sky.

“I have a wife, Hannibal.”

“That is not what I’m asking.”

They were both silent for a while, watching the sun’s rapid decline.

“We are never on the same page, are we?” Will murmured, “One of us will always be running, the other chasing.”

“The eternal chase,” Hannibal mused, “At some point, it becomes uncertain who is chasing whom.”

“I don’t want to have to run, anymore.”

Hannibal’s hands tightened slightly on Will’s shoulders.

“Is that a surrender?” the playfulness was back in his voice.

Will did not have to look back to know the expression on Hannibal’s face. 

“It’s an invocation,” he replied, “There are means of influence other than violence. What does that mean to you?”

Hannibal did not have to ponder on his response for long, “Violence is primal, instinctive. It is in our nature as a species. But so is intimacy. So is love.” 

Hannibal’s right hand had crept up from his shoulder as he spoke. His fingers now traced the scar on Will’s forehead. 

“I feel instincts, other than violence, towards you, Will.”

He looked cautiously over his shoulder and up. Hannibal met his gaze.

“Like hunger?” Will murmured.

Hannibal tilted his head, “Hunger is among them.”

He leaned closer, and Will did not pull away. Their faces touched. Hannibal closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. 

“I once opened myself up to you, Will. I let you see me,” he spoke in scarce more than a whisper, “Would you be willing to open yourself to me in the same way?”

“I’ve let you in before, Hannibal,” Will got to his feet, stepping out of his reach, “It didn’t end well, for either of us.”

“It never ended,” Hannibal replied simply. 

Will turned to face him. Hannibal was looking at him, his eyes glowing in the appearance of a predatory cat.

“Let me see you, Will.”

Will’s body followed some alien directive, separate to the instructions of his brain. His legs took him around the back of the sofa, to stand beside Hannibal. Hannibal turned to face him. Will’s hand reached out of its own volition, receiving no conscious orders, and touched the man’s face. Hannibal closed his eyes, resting his head in the palm of Will’s hand. It was like petting a tiger. He could almost feel the hum of danger beneath his palm. Hannibal might be purring now, but how long until he bit Will’s hand off? And yet, while the sophisticated, logical part of his brain urged him to retreat, an older, primal part, somewhere in the region of the medulla oblongata, told him to stay. To get even closer. To touch the big cat’s teeth.  
Will leaned up, before Hannibal could open his eyes. Their faces touched, and then their lips. The kiss was short and dry, tentative. Hannibal opened his eyes.

“Is this what you want from me, Will?”

Will did not respond. He turned away and walked towards the bedroom. Hannibal followed.

Will stopped at the foot of the bed. He began to undress, slipping off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt. Hannibal watched from the doorway. With his shirt hanging open, Will moved down to his belt. His trousers came down, so he stood only in his underwear. And then he removed that too. He caught sight of the gold band on his left hand and froze. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and seeing the faces of his wife and son behind them. He apologised, and then he shut them safely away in the back of his mind, where no amount of ugliness or betrayal could taint them. He slid off the ring and let it drop to land atop his pile of clothes.  
Hannibal watched all of this. He turned to face him. They looked at each other.

“See me,” Will said.

Hannibal came over to him. He had to fight the urge to back away, to cover himself. It was Hannibal’s turn to lay a hand on Will’s face. He lifted Will’s chin, to make him look up, into his eyes.

“I see you, Will.”

They kissed, and this time, it was not dry, short or tentative. It was deep and hungry. Will felt Hannibal drawing something out of him through his mouth, but he didn’t care to resist. He was beginning to suspect that he didn’t mind being devoured.  
Hannibal’s hand slid down Will’s torso. Will broke off the kiss with a shallow gasp as his fingertips reached the scar on his belly. It burned. Will’s mind was taken immediately back to the night Hannibal gave it to him. He remembered how he had held him, so similarly to how he held him now, and realised how illogical it was that even in that moment, Will hadn’t hated Hannibal. Even in the moment Hannibal took Abigail from him, even in the moment he took Abigail from him again. How could that be? How could he lie on the tiles with his bowls out, watching a girl he loved bleed to death and not hate the man responsible? And how could the man responsible look into his eyes, and cry?

“Does it still hurt, Will?” Hannibal asked, tracing his fingers along the scar.

A myriad of evasive replies ran through his head. And when Will opened his mouth, he found himself speaking the truth.

“It does.”

Hannibal was quiet. For a moment, they watched each other.

“Regret, as the saying goes, comes too late,” he said, bringing both his hands back up to Will’s face, “There is no sense dwelling on what might have been. Regret is a bauble. Choose to live without it.”

Will searched Hannibal’s eyes. He had no way of categorizing the things he found there. They were nameless, shapeless, unnerving. So he shifted his gaze down, to Hannibal’s mouth, and thought of all the things that had passed through those lips. Meat, words, breath.  
Will rested his head on the man’s chest, clinging to his shirt.

“Show me how,” he murmured.

He felt Hannibal’s hand, stroking his hair.

“As you wish.”

Hannibal’s weight shifted beneath him as he removed his blazer.

He spoke into Will’s ear, “Wait for me on the bed.”

And then Hannibal stepped away from him. Will watched him lay his jacket over the arm of the wingback beside the door, then sit and begin unlacing his shoes. And then he turned away and walked rigidly around the bed. He sat on the edge and closed his eyes, running his hands over his face. He had no idea what he was doing. All he knew was that soon, when The Dragon arrived, one or both of them were likely to die. And for some reason, that knowledge drove him to this.  
Behind closed eyes, he became aware of Hannibal’s presence.  
The bed creased as Hannibal sat beside him, their legs brushing. Will lowered his hands from his eyes. Hannibal had stripped himself bare. The two were now completely visible to each other. He laid his face against Will’s neck and breathed deeply. And then he moved up, kissing the side of his mouth. Will turned into the kiss. They pushed against each other this way, fluids and muscles exchanging and meeting. A wet, warm gateway between them. His arm stretched around Will’s shoulders and guided him to lie back, his head on the pillows. He realised Hannibal must have changed the sheets, crisp as they felt against his skin.  
Had he anticipated this? Had Hannibal somehow influenced him, orchestrating this outcome?  
Hannibal broke off this kiss. Will fixed eyes with the man kneeling over him and realised that he didn’t give a damn if he was being manipulated.

“You know what this entails, Will?”

He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the emotional rockslide that had blocked his reasoning. But he found he could not. And so, for lack of better judgment, he gave his instinctive reply:

“Yes.”

Hannibal did not move. He stayed on all fours, looming over him, his hands digging into the mattress on either side of Will’s head.

“And you are certain that this is what you want?”

“When it comes to you and I,” Will spoke without thinking, the words simply fell out, “There can be no certainty.”

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth inched up, “No decisive victory, you once said.” 

“None,” Will agreed.

He sat up, dragging a hand down Will’s torso. That smirk grew when his hand reached Will’s groin.

“I must say, Will,” Hannibal’s voice was low and playful, “I’m flattered.”

Will now had a clear view of Hannibal’s lower half. And while Hannibal patronised and teased, his member communicated something very different.

“I could say the same,” Will replied, propping himself up on his elbow.

Hannibal tilted his head, and Will could not shake the feeling of enormity. Straddling Will as he was, Hannibal towered over him. Like some colossal being that was very capable of swallowing Will Graham whole. His hand slid further down and then groped, maintaining eye contact all the way. Will’s breath hitched in the back of his throat. Hannibal bent and the mouth that Will had exchanged innumerable words with opened. Will stiffened, tightening his fists on the sheets.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said hastily.

Hannibal looked up, lifting his mouth off again, to smirk at him.

“You’re not the only one who’s hungry, Will.”

And then he descended on Will’s erection again, keeping his eyes up and fixed. Will managed to steady his breathing. Hannibal moved slowly, laboriously. The warmth and pain in Will’s belly grew. Neither of which unpleasant. They churned and coiled as he gradually began to move with Hannibal. He thrust gently up as Hannibal came down and it just went deeper and deeper. Their eye contact remained unbroken. Hannibal did not increase his pace, only upped his intensity, sucking harder, pushing deeper, letting his hands explore and fondle. Will broke off and tilted his head back, screwing his eyes shut, trying to maintain a modicum of control. But Hannibal’s gaze did not falter, he watched Will squirm. While Hannibal remained steady and constant, Will’s condition deteriorated. His breath became jagged, fragments of moans escaping as he exhaled. His back now arching off the mattress as Hannibal went up, and curving into the bed again as Hannibal came down. His right hand travelled from the sheets to tighten in Hannibal’s hair, of its own accord. The warmth and pain in his stomach had spread and solidified. It filled him now, needing to be released. Will tried to warn him, but could not find the words. All Will could do was gasp his name as he let go.  
And Hannibal did not pull away, he swallowed him. 

Will lay panting, staring up at the ceiling, feeling pleasantly drained. His chest heaved with each breath, expanding and deflating, his heart hammering inside it. He began to apologise, but Hannibal cut him off with a kiss, leaning over him on all fours again. His mouth had a vague saltiness to it, the taste of his own semen, but Will wasn’t repulsed. With all the intimacies they had already shared, how could this possibly be crossing a line? And then he thought of Molly. The guilt was there, an instantaneous, momentary jolt. And then he shut her away again, barring the door this time.  
As if feeling the thoughts passing through Will’s mouth, Hannibal broke off the kiss to look Will in the eye.

“This is what you want, Will,” he said, and it was not a question.

“This is what I want, Hannibal,” Will confirmed.

Hannibal stroked Will’s jaw with his knuckles and then slid his thumb into his mouth.

“Bite if you need to,” he said.

And then he spat into the palm of his other hand. Will knew what it meant, asking for this. But he had no way of mentally preparing himself for it, limited as his knowledge and experience was in this field. Hannibal, on the other hand, seemed to know what he was doing. The feeling was not painful, not at first, only a moderate discomfort, the feeling of Hannibal’s finger inside him. Just the tip, and then the first knuckle, and then the second and then–  
Will bit down on Hannibal’s thumb involuntarily, his body stiffening and the muscle contracting.

“Relax, Will,” Hannibal soothed, “this cannot work unless you relax.”

Will nodded rigidly. He slackened his jaw, so as not to draw blood from Hannibal’s thumb. He took slow breaths, making an effort to draw air from his diaphragm. The muscle loosened, freeing Hannibal’s finger. And then he put in another. Will squirmed as he stretched the two apart, struggling to breathe evenly.

“Relax,” Hannibal reminded him.

By way of response, Will bit down on Hannibal’s thumb. Hannibal made a small sound, like a laugh, and continued his task. He drew his fingers out and slid them back in, slowly, slowly, imitating sex. Will lay with his eyes screwed shut and his nails digging into the mattress. And all the while he could feel Hannibal’s gaze on him. At some point, Will began moving his hips with him, letting him go deeper, deeper. Until he hit something.  
Will’s eyes flew open, every muscle in his body contracting once more.

“What was– what was–?” he stumbled over his words.

Hannibal smirked down at him, “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the prostate gland, Will?”

He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling again. 

“Right. Of course,” he mumbled, closing his eyes, feeling infantile for asking.

His fingers left him and suddenly Will felt Hannibal’s breath on his face. He opened his eyes and found Hannibal there, looming over him.

“I’d like to know every inch of you,” he said, brushing hair out of Will’s eyes, “if I may?”

Will’s hand gravitated to Hannibal’s face. It rested so comfortably there.

“You may.”

Hannibal kissed him, sliding a hand under his back and lifting him bodily up off the bed. Will was simultaneously shocked and aroused by this show of physical strength. But he did not break off the kiss, could not bear to. They now knelt facing each other, their bodies pressed together. Will hooked his arms around Hannibal’s neck. And still they kissed, teeth and lips knocking, tongues entwined. Hannibal’s hands blindly explored Will’s back. He began running his fingers along the edge of his shoulder blades, and then he traced them down the groove of Will’s spine. His hands spread out when they reached his lower back, to feel the shape of his hips. And then they went further, to what lay beneath, and groped. Will broke off the kiss momentarily. They breathed into each other’s mouths until Will pushed forward again, reconnecting them. Hannibal’s right hand slid around to Will’s front, and then between them. He pulled away from Will’s lips and held his hand palm up beneath their chins.

“Spit,” he instructed.

Will did as told. Hannibal did the same. And then the hand travelled down again. Will was already semi hard. He took them both in his hand and began to stroke up and down as they kissed. His left hand stayed firmly on Will’s cheek, squeezing and loosening as Will’s movements dictated. And when Hannibal could feel Will’s erection was there to stay, he leaned back again, signaling Will to open his eyes and look at him.

“I won’t lie to you, Will,” he said, his voice somber for the first time, “we lack proper lubricant. This is going to hurt.”

Will studied his face. Those nameless things waited there, just behind his eyes, but Will no longer found them unnerving. Only curious. He sighed, and then leaned his head forward so their foreheads touched. After a few seconds like this, staring into each other’s eyes, he closed his, so he could have a moment to collect himself.

“When has anything between us not hurt?” he said, a small laugh punctuating the end of the sentence.

Hannibal kissed him, a short, chaste peck on the edge of his mouth.

“I’ll be careful. Your wellbeing is of great importance to me.”

And despite everything, Will knew this was true. By Hannibal’s understanding of wellbeing, at least.  
His fingers delved in again, without warning, and it took great resolve on Will’s part to remain calm and loose. He bent his head, resting it on Hannibal’s shoulder. And then he introduced a third finger and resting was not enough. Will bit down on his trapezius muscle. He felt it tensing beneath his teeth, and dug his fingernails into Hannibal’s back. It was not without satisfaction, knowing he was causing Hannibal a small amount of pain too. A kind of childish defiance. Hannibal did not protest because, Will knew, his defiance always amused him. He alternated between stretching and sliding, sporadically hitting the sweet spot, seemingly with the sole intention of jarring Will. Will bit harder each time, until the metallic taste of blood welled into his mouth, and he bit harder still. 

“That should be enough,” came Hannibal’s voice in his ear, after an insufferable length of teasing.

His hands slid up to the small of Will’s back and then he leaned forward, depositing Will onto the mattress. They stared up and down respectively at each other for a while. The moment had a sense of finality to it, of sadness. And then Hannibal stooped low, taking Will’s legs by the ankles and guiding them over his shoulders. He took hold of Will’s hips and lifted them, dragging Will’s entire body closer. Will could not make sense of this position until Hannibal buried his face in him. He felt his tongue, warm and wet around the delicate muscle, and did his best not to squirm away. He let it happen, biting on his knuckle to silence himself. He was beyond telling Hannibal he didn’t have to. It was clear to him now, Hannibal wanted to.  
He lowered Will to the mattress again, after a good while. He leaned over Will, supporting himself with one arm on the mattress. Their foreheads touched. They exchanged thoughts with their eyes, and then Hannibal voiced what had passed between them.

“Are you ready?”

Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He let it go slowly. And when his lungs were empty he opened his eyes and whispered his reply:

“Yes.”

Hannibal pushed.  
Will stiffened instinctively for a moment, clawing at the mattress with his fingers, and then he gained control of himself and opened up. Hannibal pushed further.  
Will kept his eyes resolutely fixed on Hannibal’s, trying to maintain the appearance of composure. But his mouth yawned in a kind of silent scream. Hannibal pushed further, moving slowly. Will snapped his mouth shut, clenching his jaw, breathing loudly through his nose. His heart spasmed in his chest as Hannibal went deeper. Will’s arms shot up to wrap around him. He dug his nails into Hannibal’s back. Now it hurt. Skin sliding dryly against skin; saliva did little by way of lubrication. And though Will fought to contain it, he knew Hannibal saw it in his eyes. And he smirked at it.  
He pushed deeper still, and then he stopped. Will had to swallow a few times before he was confident in his ability to speak. Little beads of blood swelled from the bite on Hannibal’s shoulder. One forged a path down his chest, until it became too heavy and gravity pulled it down, to land on Will’s collarbone.

“Is that all?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“That’s all,” Hannibal said, kissing Will’s brow. 

They stayed like that for a moment as they both mentally acknowledged that this was the closest they had ever been, and may ever be, to each other. Will could sense Hannibal taking photos with his retinas, storing this all away in a room in his memory palace. Will hoped it was a grand room, an important one. 

“May I move?”

After a small hesitation, Will nodded stiffly.  
Hannibal pulled out and thrust into him again, in no hurry, savouring the feel of Will’s body. He closed his right hand around Will’s erection, and began stroking its shaft, to lessen the chance of discomfort making him go soft. On the second slow thrust, he hit Will’s prostate, causing him to curl his toes and clench his teeth. Scars all over Will’s body stung and the warmth and pain began gathering in his belly, like a whirlpool. And on the third he hit it again. A sound escaped Will, but he muffled it, burying his face into Hannibal’s chest. It spurred Hannibal on, to hit it a third time. Will gasped into his chest again. And then Hannibal leaned back, out of Will’s reach, sliding his hands under Will’s back and then down to his hips. Hannibal pulled out. He straightened up, drawing his knees closer together so he towered over Will. He lifted the lower half of Will’s body up off the bed by his hips. Simultaneously he thrust in again, with greater force and speed than before. Will made a strangled cry. He immediately shoved a knuckle into his mouth and bit down, to prevent any further slips. 

Hannibal watched all this in amusement, resuming his former arduous pace.  
Will did not weigh much in his hands. It was as if he was barely there. If Hannibal let go, he would simply slip away. He tightened his grip on Will’s hips and pushed in deeper. Will’s body trembled around him and he knew he’d hit the spot again. He slid his hands onto Will’s back, so he had his arms looped around him, and leaned forward to press his face against Will’s belly, to smell him. 

“Let me hear you,” he said, nuzzling against Will’s navel, “don’t hide anything from me, Will.”

And then he leaned back again, sliding his hands to Will’s hips and resuming his pace. Will was working with him now. It happened automatically. His hips began moving in time with Hannibal. Pushing down when Hannibal went in and arching away as he pulled out. Will would have been embarrassed if he had not been surprised by how quickly his body had become accustomed to this. It still hurt, God it hurt, but that was not without its own strange edge of pleasure. Will had had sex enough times with enough partners, but this was something else. Of course he’d never been with another man before, but that was not what defined this encounter. There was something so instinctive, so visceral about the connection. Will felt he was melting, entering Hannibal’s bloodstream somehow. He was being digested.  
Will came to and realised he had been moaning, in complete abandon of his senses. Hannibal was drinking it in. He gritted his teeth, shutting in his voice, but found that he did not want to. 

“Hannibal,” he gasped, “I can’t…”

Hannibal leaned forward to lay him down on the bed again. He held Will’s face in his hands.

“Together,” he said.

The maelstrom of pain, heat and pleasure in Will’s belly would suck him in if it remained a moment longer. Hannibal pushed in one more time; hit the spot one more time. Will dug his fingers into his back. Hannibal sighed his name. Will shouted his.  
It was done.  
Will came onto Hannibal’s stomach and Hannibal came inside of him.  
The warmth and pain left Will’s body, leaving, for a moment, only elation.  
And then that faded, contracting into a little orb of strange happiness in the pit of his stomach. The rest of him was empty. They lay holding each other for a time, panting, not wanting to separate.  
Eventually, Hannibal pulled out and lay on the bed beside him. They did not touch, did not speak, just lay breathing in the semi dark. 

Outside, the world had moved on and slipped into night. Somewhere in the darkness, the Great Red Dragon was closing in on them.  
But in that room everything was still.

“Come away with me,” Hannibal spoke from the darkness beside him.

Will felt himself smiling. An ugly smile.

“You know I won’t.”

They did not speak again. Hunger grew in both of them. They had no way of measuring the time they spent lying beside each other. Will might have slept and dreamed of lying there, might have been awake the entire time. The membrane between conciseness and sleep seemed to have become thin enough to be seen through on either side. And after what might have been ten minutes or ten hours, Hannibal sat up.  
Will kept his eyes on the ceiling, well adjusted as they were now to the dark, and listened to him leaving the room.  
Shortly after, he heard the pipes moving in the walls around him, and the spray of water hitting tiles. He got to his feet and followed Hannibal to the bathroom.  
He was already in the shower.  
Will could see the scratches he had left on his back through the misted glass, seeming to glow against his skin. The shower was large enough to fit them both comfortably. They did not touch, barely even looked at each other. It was not erotic in any way, but undeniably intimate. Hannibal got out first.  
Will stood for a while under the spray with his eyes shut. He closed the hot tap and opened the cold all the way. He felt as though he were standing naked in the rain, somewhere dark and empty. He revelled in it, empty and dark as he felt himself.  
When he got out, it was to find a clean towel and his clothes, folded neatly and laid out on the counter beside the sink. Will dried himself and got dressed, avoiding his reflection in the foggy mirror. Hannibal had put the ring down separately from his clothes.  
Will put it on last, and thought nothing of it as he did so. Those emotions had been locked away, to be dealt with at a later stage. He came out of the bathroom to find Hannibal was nowhere to be seen.  
The cellar door was open, so Will did the math.  
He did not go look for him, felt no impulse to. He knew Hannibal was near. Instead he was drawn to the massive window, to the moon in the sky beyond it. It was shrouded in clouds, but managed to occasionally peek through. And after a while of standing in introspective silence, he heard Hannibal approaching from behind. 

“You’re playing games with yourself in the dark of the moon,” he said.

There was a faint clinking as he set down a wine bottle and the two clean glasses on the piano. Will turned slowly to face him, his eyes peeling reluctantly from the sky.

“Wasn’t surprising that I heard from the Great Red Dragon,” he said, giving the glasses a final polish, “Was it surprising when you heard from him?”

Hannibal looked to him expectantly. Will met his gaze. 

“Yes and no,” he said simply.

That faint, Mona Lisa smirk ghosted over his face, and then he held the wine glass up to the light for inspection before setting it down again.

“Do you intend to watch him kill me?” he asked, reaching for the corkscrew, with all the frankness of one inquiring after the weather.

“I intend to watch him change you,” Will replied.

Hannibal did not look at him, he was focused on removing the foil from the top of the wine bottle. And then he smiled.

“My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will,” he said, looking directly into his eyes.

Will nodded slightly, “If you’re partial to beef products it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow.”

Hannibal chuckled in the back of his throat. Will watched him screw into the cork and yank it out with a satisfying pop. He held it up to his nose and sniffed before setting it down on the piano. He picked up the wine glasses in one hand, holding the stems between his fingers, and walked over to Will.

“Save yourself,” he said, handing one to Will, “kill them all.”

Will thought about this as Hannibal filled his glass.

“I don’t know if I can save myself,” he said, and then he looked up into Hannibal’s eyes, “maybe that’s just fine.”

Hannibal considered this, taking a few steps away.

“No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend,” he said, filling his glass.

He looked to Will and raised it in a toast, inclining his head slightly towards him.  
Will sighed. He wondered if that was true. And if, despite his best efforts, he and Hannibal had become friends.

“He’s watching us now,” he said, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I know,” Hannibal replied.

Will felt his eyes on him; felt that they had been on him this whole time. Hannibal always watched him like that, as though he was about to disappear. And maybe he was. He looked slowly up into Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal raised his glass, to swirl it, to smell the red inside.  
Will wondered what his red smelled like to Hannibal.  
Then there was a gunshot.  
Broken glass rained down as the enormous window shattered. The wine bottle exploded in Hannibal’s hand and he looked down at it, and at the red spot on his stomach where the bullet had passed through him.  
Will saw something on Hannibal’s face he had never seen before: surprise.  
Will watched Hannibal fall.


End file.
